180 bales?"

The old man turned and glared at him fiercely.

"Do you reckon I'd trust you to lend to others if I didn't trust you
myself? Make the loans, then explain the paper afterward."

Next morning Bob bought a second-hand automobile for two hundred and
fifty dollars and gave his note for it. It was not much of an
automobile, but it was of the sort that always comes home.

Rogeen headed straight south, and in less than an hour stopped at the
Chandler ranch.

Imogene was under the shade of the arrow-weed roof, reading a magazine.
Rogeen felt a quick thrill as he saw her flush slightly as she came out
to meet him.

"What means the gasolene chariot?" she asked. "Prosperity or mere
recklessness?"

"Merely hopefulness," he answered. "I brought a paper for you. Sign
on the dotted line." He handed her a promissory note, due in six
months, for $4,500.

"What is this?" She had been living so long on a few dollars at a time
that the figures sounded startling.

"I've got a loan on your cotton," replied Bob with huge satisfaction.
"And you can have it as soon as you and your father have signed the
note."

"Good heavens!" The blood had left her face. "You are not joking, are
you? Why, man alive, that means that we live! It will give us $1,400
above the debts."

Bob felt a choking in his throat. The pluckiness of the girl! And
that he could bring her relief! "Yes, and I'm going to take you back
to town, where you can pay off the debts and get your money."

The exuberant gayety that broke over the girl's spirits as they
returned to town moved Bob deeply. What a long, hard pull she and her
father had had; no wonder the unexpected relief sent her spirits on the
rebound.

"Thank the Lord," he said, fervently, to himself, "for that sharp old
man with bushy eyebrows!"

As they drove up to the International Bank where Bob had asked the
compress company to send all the bills against the Chandler cotton,
another machine was just driving away and a woman was entering the bank.

"By the great horn spoon," Bob exclaimed aloud, "that is Mrs. Barnett."

"Who is Mrs. Barnett?" Imogene Chandler asked archly. "Some special
friend of yours?"

"Hardly," Bob replied, remembering that Miss Chandler knew neither Jim
Crill nor his niece.

"And the man who was driving away," said Imogene, "was Reedy Jenkins."

"It was?" Bob turned quickly. "Are you sure? I was watching the woman
and did not notice the machin